


Snow Angels 2

by sudapigrafool



Series: Snow Angels [2]
Category: My So-Called Life
Genre: M/M, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudapigrafool/pseuds/sudapigrafool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jordan and Shane practicing with their band, writing songs, trying to find the words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Angels 2

When Jordan thinks about music, suddenly ideas start coming together a little more easily in his head. Because with music he has the option of leaving just a melody in the gaps where words don’t seem to fit, and in his opinion that’s a definite plus. Sometimes words just get in the way of an experience.

Although, Jordan doesn't think making up lyrics is the hardest part about writing a song. Actually, it’s knowing what to say and what not to. And sometimes, he has to admit, the difference between the two is kind of confusing, because not all the boundaries between ‘say’ and ‘don’t say’ are clear to him. In fact, most days there are more unclear boundaries in Jordan's life than clear ones. So, he tends to ere on the side not saying too much, on not putting too many things out there. He keeps a lot to himself. He has these _uncertainties_. There’s a lot Jordan hasn’t figured out yet, and not just about writing song lyrics. But, music is the one place where he can put some of his thoughts and feelings, and not have to pile on the words to try and get a point across. He can express something, but he doesn’t have to explain it. Or defend it. Which is definitely a good thing, because by tomorrow everything could change. He’s seen it happen.

"Fast, or slow?" Shane is asking. Jordan has just played a piece of an unfinished song for him, and Shane isn’t convinced it wouldn’t sound better a little more up tempo. He’s sitting behind his drums fidgeting, waiting for an answer, when suddenly he starts thumping and grinding out a beat, low and slow, while wearing a silly smirk on his face. Jordan can’t help himself, he grins back. This goofiness is Shane’s way of being non-confrontational about offering a dissenting opinion.

Jordan shakes his head at him like, c’mon. "It’s a ballad," he insists. But maybe it is a little too soft. Jordan feels unsure.

While he's thinking it over, Shane keeps pattering away insinuatingly on the snare, lost in his own little world. But then, with a sudden jolt, the cymbal crashes and his foot hits the bass pedal. He looks up at Jordan from beneath those intense brows of his and, "needs more drums," he tells him.

Whatever.

Whenever Jordan’s writing a song and finally thinks he’s got something worth sharing, he’ll try putting it out there in bits and pieces. And the lyrics might be full of all the stuff he normally keeps to himself on the inside, but still, it’s not like he’s actually _telling_ anything. Not to anybody _specific_. Or like he’s saying things that are about any one particular person. Like, people could interpret them as being about some girl for instance. Only, then again, maybe not.

And it’s kind of a perfect situation, because people will listen to him, they’ll actually stop and listen, and that opens things up a little bit so Jordan can feel like he's made a personal connection.

Just not _the_ connection. Not yet. Things are still way too uncertain for that.

"I gotta get going," Shane tells him, stepping out from behind his kit. With a quick toss of his head, he flips the hair back from his face. "You stayin’?" Official practice broke up an hour ago, ‘cause there’s only so late into the night they can keep the amps plugged in before one of the neighbors calls the police. Since then, Shane has been loitering around waiting for Jordan, who’s shown no sign of getting ready to leave.

"Yeah," Jordan replies, reaching over to place his guitar in its case. "I can give you a lift home, though."

"And then come back?" Jordan nods wordlessly, avoiding Shane’s eyes. That means Jordan’s been having more trouble with his dad again, Shane knows. It’s hardly the first time.

"I’d hang with you, but my mom…" Shane shrugs. "She worries."

"I know," Jordan tells him, reaching for his coat.

"If I’m going to be gone all night, I need some advance warning to come up with a good excuse," Shane eyes twinkle at him mischievously. "‘Aliens took me’ don’t work anymore." If he can make Jordan laugh, maybe he won’t have to feel embarrassed about his messed up home situation. Actually, it’s more like his lack of a home situation at all these days. And Shane totally gets that Jordan doesn’t appreciate people acting like they feel sorry for him.

Success. Jordan eyes crinkle up, and one amused huff of breath later he comes back with, "That shit ever actually work for you?"

"No, but she’d start yelling at me for telling whoppers, and then," Shane’s tongue peeks out between his lips playfully, "she’d get all sidetracked…"

Jordan’s boots clomp their way to the backstairs, keys rattling in his hand, and Shane’s right behind him. As they descend to the alley below, the air seems to be getting progressively cooler.

"Gonna be cold out tonight," Shane says, rubbing his palms together. He turns to looks back at the upper story windows. "The heat up there ain’t great." Not terrible, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to leave their instruments behind the way they always do. But Shane is right, Jordan’s thinking, not great. It’s definitely old and drafty. Secure though, mostly. At least, the hardware store out front has its own alarm system.

"It’ll be okay," Jordan tells him. And the truth is, he’s got no place else to go. If Tino hadn’t managed to arrange this practice space for them, Jordan would be sleeping in his car tonight. It’s late in the fall and sometimes there’s frost, but it’s not really freezing out yet. Not like it will be in a few more… weeks? Jordan couldn’t give you today’s exact date if his life depended on it. Halloween hasn’t happened yet, though, he doesn’t think. Trick or treat, Devil’s night, he would have noticed.

The top is still down on the convertible, so right away Jordan settles in behind the steering wheel and flicks the switch that powers the hydraulics. Shane drops into the seat on the passenger side next to him. He uses the door this time which isn’t nearly as much fun as the other way. The engine is humming and Jordan’s already thumbing the heat control. Here’s the thing. Shane knows people are under the impression Jordan’s a slacker who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about much of anything, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Practically everything about Jordan’s car, for example, is immaculately clean and works perfectly--or at least it will as soon as he can scrape together more money for parts--which is nothing at all like the condition it was in when Jordan first got a hold of it. So, in addition to his music, Jordan’s car is kind of his life’s work, and a labor of love, and his masterpiece. And anybody with a pair of _eyes_ should be able to see that, but generally they don't.

The alley is narrow, but Jordan navigates his way around dumpsters and back stoops with practiced ease. The street he turns on to is nearly empty except for parked cars. Neither of them reaches for the radio, the night is silent. Shane watches as Jordan’s breaths turn into small clouds of vapor in the cold, still air like a thin trail of smoke from a cigarette. Then he turns and exhales slowly against the window by his shoulder. A soft fog of moisture condenses over the glass obliterating his view. Impulsively, he reaches up to trace a pattern with his finger.

"You pick me up in the morning?" Shane’s voice breaks through the quiet.

"Yeah," Jordan answers. Same as always, he’s thinking. There was no real need to ask, but it’s like, their ritual. He’s watching the fallen leaves outside scatter and stick to the pavement in the damp. In the shadow of his headlights they seem to lose most of their color.

"’Kay. I’ll bring you coffee." With milk and sugar, Shane already knows, he doesn’t need to ask. Jordan would take Pepsi if he’d offer, but when Shane was little, his mom would never let him drink soda before lunch, so they’ve already had that discussion. Shane says coffee is probably better for him. ’Cause, milk and all.

Right now Shane’s thinking how when he and Jordan were younger the world was a much simpler place. No American Lit, no algebra; Nintendo ruled, girls had cooties. Now, some days it takes a vodka shot in his SunnyD before first bell just to make it through homeroom. They don’t talk about that though. Seems like lately there are a lot of things he and Jordan don’t talk about.

The car noses its way down the block where Shane lives and glides along under the glare of streetlights. He’s watching Jordan’s eyes scan the empty sidewalk and sees when he notices the porch light left on outside Shane’s front door. The car brakes smoothly to a halt in the middle of the road when they pull up exactly across from it.

A moment passes before Shane moves to get out. He feels like he should be saying something. More than just, "’bye" and "catch you in the morning." Maybe something about Angela or whatever. He wants to, but… at the moment he has no words. Still safe inside the car together, it’s finally starting to feel warmer. A stream of heated air is flowing steadily from the vents slowly erasing the haze on the passenger side window next to him, and the finger drawing he sketched there. Tic tac toe.

Sometimes, Shane reminds himself, the only winning move is not to play.

 

\--stop--


End file.
